Play Dead (D.I. Kim Stone, #4)(15)

She had called time on the working day following the meeting with Jemima’s parents. Dawson was getting paper cuts from the missing-persons reports. Stacey was going cross-eyed staring at the screen, and Bryant had been stuck with her since first thing. They all deserved the opportunity to get home before seven p.m.

She hated this part of a case: the beginning, when the letters on the whiteboard in the office had room to breathe. To her it always felt like trying to stack pebbles. Without some kind of mortar it was going nowhere.

She had taken the time to clean all her windows and take Barney for his night-time walk. He now lay straddling the threshold of the doorway to the kitchen. At the tip of his front paws lay a portion of antler bone. The treat was supposed to last a long time and give the dog something to work at. In Barney’s case, he tried every now and again and then just left it. At this rate he could pass it on to his children, Kim mused.

Her dog was all about instant gratification.

Barney had come to her from one of her earlier cases. He had been the faithful pet of a convicted rapist who had been murdered on the Thorns Road. Following the attack the dog had not run away to freedom but had chosen to sit beside his master with his blood-spattered fur. And although the marks were now gone Kim still pictured him sitting there.

Clearer still was the image of him being led away from an old lady unable to take care of him and placed in the ‘no-go’ area of the dog’s home. His kennel had lacked even a nameplate. So sure was the facility that he would not be re-homed again.

Unfortunately, for whatever reason, the dog didn’t play well with others and had seen more homes than a Barratt’s digger.

Kim gave him one last rub and stood, fully aware that she had more in common with a dog than anyone else in her life.

She tipped her head at him. Much the same way he did at her.

‘Want a carrot?’

His ears pricked and his tail whooshed the floor.

‘Yeah, I thought—’

Her words ended as the mobile phone next to the iPod began to ring. Good news didn’t usually come after midnight.

She checked the display. It was a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Stone,’ she answered.

‘Ah, Inspector, I thought you’d be up.’

At first the lazy, baiting voice didn’t register, but when it did she groaned into the mouthpiece.

Tracy Frost, local reporter, national pain in the arse and someone who should not have had her number.

‘Is it not midnight under your rock, Frost?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know us reporters. We never sleep.’

Kim thought the term ‘reporter’ held a little too much dignity and professionalism to apply to Tracy, but she let it pass. The woman had been the pea beneath her mattress during her last major investigation, threatening to expose a kidnapping story despite a media blackout. The timeliness of the search had been imperative to the well-being of the girls, but Tracy Frost had added just that bit of extra pressure.

‘A bit like you police officers, eh? We are so much alike.’

Kim held the phone away from her ear and looked at it as though it had just licked her lobe. Was this woman on medication?

‘I’m hanging up now so…’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you. You’re going to want to hear—’

‘Tracy, you do know that we’re not friends, don’t you?’ Kim clarified.

‘Of course,’ she said, chuckling.

‘And you know that I can’t stand the sight of you and will never give you the heads-up on any case I’m working?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tracy answered.

‘Then why the hell are you on the other end of my phone?’

Kim held her breath, praying that the news of Westerley had not yet broken. She didn’t want to have to get Woody out of bed to fight fires at this time of night.

‘Well, I’m writing a feature about West Mercia having recently solved a few cold cases. To be honest the article focusses more on the fact that West Midlands Police have not, and your name does come up a bit so I thought I’d give you the chance to comment.’

Kim sighed with both relief and disgust at the same time. Trust Tracy Frost to concentrate on the negative. She also knew that the chance to comment realistically meant opportunity to defend herself.

‘Frost, I’m going to hang up now,’ Kim said, moving the phone away from her ear.

‘Keep your knickers on, Stone. I already asked your boss for a quote and he refused, so I thought I’d come to you, seeing as your name will be all over it.’

Of course it would. Kim’s refusal to play nice with the woman often meant she was front and centre when Tracy mentioned anything to do with West Midlands Police. Frost’s call to Woody further explained the timeliness of the visit to Westerley.

‘One of the cold cases I’m going to mention is that guy named Bob…’

‘Who the hell is…?’

‘Unidentified male found in Fens Pools reservoir two years ago with his fingers chopped off. I refer to him as Bob—’

Kim wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You called him Bob because he was found in the water?’

‘I called him Bob because he reminded me of my uncle Robert. Fuck me, Stone. I’m not that cold.’

Kim’s inner jury was out on that one.